


of swords and wings

by curiositykilled



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Insecurity, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, self-indulgent af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:54:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11951478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: When Altaïr is forced to recuperate in the Jerusalem bureau, the two are brought face-to-face with the masks they've placed on each other through their memories, assumptions, and hurt.





	1. Chapter 1

The thing is, when it really comes down to it, they used to be friends. They aren’t anymore – it slipped away somewhere between the grey robes of novice and the cold bracer of the hidden blade – but they used to be. That’s what gets him in the end.

When they were children, after Malik first arrived at Masyaf, they’d been bunkmates. They’d trained together, ate together, fallen exhausted onto their mouse-filled mattress together. Malik would hunch up on his side and Altaïr would curl up with his back pressed to Malik’s. There had been a time, once, when Malik couldn’t sleep till he had that warm pressure against his spine.

It’s been a long time since then.

He slides the quill back into the inkwell and reaches over to rub at his shoulder. The weather’s changing or there’s a full moon rising or there’s too much negative energy around him. He shoots a half-hearted glare at the door to the other room. If it’s negative energy that’s the problem, he knows where it’s coming from.

It’s evening, not quite night. The lamps are lit throughout the bureau but there’s still a soft orange light filtering through the narrow window and the grate in the other room. There’s a stillness throughout like the hush of a shroud.

Altaïr’s been into the bureau a few times since the temple, and each has followed the same pattern. He saunters in, makes a stupid comment, and Malik pounces on it. It’s grown comfortable, somehow, to rip him to shreds. It’s remarkably easy; as deadly as Altaïr is, defense has never been his strength. He leaves openings that are comically wide for Malik’s attacks.

Sighing, Malik pushes back from his desk to reach up and stretch. His back crackles, releasing tension he hadn’t realized was there. He stands, rubbing the back of his neck with a grimace. Even most of a year later, his body is still accustomed to training and moving all day. Sitting at a desk, hunched over paperwork, inevitably leaves him sore and stiff.

He leaves the map, half-finished, to dry over night and heads to the kitchen across the building. He passes through the entry room and glances to the mats. Altaïr reclines against the pillows, chin tipped down but posture still stiff. Malik tsks and continues through.

The dining room is mostly empty, only a small group of journeymen sitting together as they eat. One glances up and gestures to Malik.

“Dai, please,” he prompts, “join us.”

They open a space up for him in the circle, and Malik folds himself neatly into the spot. A bowl of soup is procured and passed his way, which he takes with a small nod of gratitude.

“We heard the Eagle of Masyaf is roosting here tonight, Dai,” one of them remarks.

Another scoffs, “ _Eagle._ ”

Malik shrugs.

“You can look in the front room yourself, Sajid,” he replies.

“He should’ve been executed,” another remarks. “What he did was treason.”

Malik takes another sip of soup.

“Treason?” Sajid scoffs. “He did as Al Mualim commanded.”

“He broke every tenet of the Creed!”

Malik lets them argue around him as he finishes his meal. To his surprise, Sajid is the only one of the four to defend Altaïr. The rest are bitterly denigrating, ripping into every facet of Altaïr’s identity.

“How can you believe a word from that traitor’s mouth? You know the lies he spread about Ahmad Sofian!”

“That is enough,” Malik snaps.

The room falls silent abruptly. Malik takes a moment to school his expression; his voice came out sharper than he expected, sharper than he meant. He doesn’t care except – except they used to be friends, and Malik still remembers the way Altaïr would shake awake from nightmares twice a night after Ahmad’s death.

“Tell me, what is the third tenet of the Creed?” he prompts.

The others grumble, expressions sour. For most of them, it’s been some years since they were novices being drilled on the Creed every day.

“Never compromise the Brotherhood,” they reluctantly chorus.

“And what does that mean?”

“Do not bring harm upon the Brotherhood, direct or indirect,” one of the journeymen mumbles.

“To bring harm to one is to bring harm to us all,” Malik says. “A tree will split from rot long before it splits from lightning.”

There’s silence when he finishes, a distinctly chastised feeling to the air. Then, Sajid speaks up.

“But Dai, you hate Altaïr,” he objects.

Malik’s mouth clicks shut. Before he can reply, the two men across from him look up to the doorway. Altaïr strolls across the room with his customary swaying stride. He seems heedless of the other five men in the room, but he leaves with his bowl rather than staying in the room to eat. He leaves behind him a terse silence.

Malik finishes his soup and stands, leaving the others to their stilted silence. He washes his bowl before returning to his office. The front room is empty save for a clean bowl sitting on the fountain’s edge. Water droplets still cling to its surface.

He closes up the office, extinguishing the last lamp and retreating to his private quarters. It’s quiet here with his books and his bed. There are maps pinned to the walls, all the places he once thought he’d go. He and Altaïr used to read about them, holed up in the library. Altaïr had been skinny and small as a child, and Malik had been too quick to throw a punch; they’d stumbled upon each other in the library while tucking themselves into the same hiding place. Only Al Mualim ever found them there.

Malik sighs and turns his thoughts forcibly away. There is a book he was reading the night before still laying among his pillows, far enough from where he lies that it’s in no danger of being crushed. He settles down into the pillows and picks it back up. His hand grows tired of holding books for too long and his arm fatigues if he lies on his stomach to read, so he’s found the only solution is to tuck his knees up like a child and rest the book on his thighs.

It’s a book of the stars, detailing the orbits of each of the heavenly bodies. If he’s honest, it’s not Malik’s favorite work, but it speaks of a place he had no hunger to visit, of a place he has not lost because he never had it. He falls asleep with his hand tracing the heavens.

In the morning, his back is stiff and his mouth stale. A fly buzzes alarmingly close to his face, and he flinches away. The book slides, toppling onto the mat. He grumbles a half-hearted curse and picks up the book as he levers himself to his feet. He makes his way through the office to the empty front room and pulls himself up along the lattice to the roof grate. Once he’s slid the grate back into place, he straightens and takes a deep breath.

The dawn’s rising slowly, purple lingering even as the sun brings with it a rosy orange against the horizon. It’s early enough that the air’s still cool, the night breezes just fading against the rising heat of the day.

It’s one of the few moments Malik gets to himself, a brief opportunity for peace. He’s found, surprisingly, that the role of Dai fits him like a glove. He enjoys the mix of brothers who come through – from the novices nervous on their first mission to the master assassins who trained with Malik so many years ago – and the remarkable independence that comes from being hundreds of miles out from under Al Mualim’s omniscient eyes.

But he comes from the mountains – where even at nine, he was trusted to watch the sheep up on the hill. Living surrounded by Assassins in Masyaf, he’d often found himself escaping to the tall towers or the cool library just for a chance to be alone, to have enough quiet to hear his own thoughts.

The city isn’t silent, of course; even at dawn, Jerusalem is buzzing. Malik steps closer to the edge. Clothes flutter from lines between the buildings, and a lanky grey cat prowls along the alley below his feet.

There’s a noise behind him.

Malik turns, hand reaching back to pull the short sword from his lower back. It’s a hard, fast arc and there’s a clash as it catches on a hidden blade.

Altaïr’s eyes are wide, for once visible with his hood down against his shoulders. Malik freezes, too startled to move. Altaïr seems to have the same problem; his left arm is raised to block Malik’s blow, but his body’s bent in an odd contortion. Malik follows the line of it to realize that Altaïr has simply frozen in the midst of reaching for the sword that lays beside a bedroll on the roof. The roll is half-neatened, like Altaïr had been in the midst of packing it up when Malik arrived.

“Did you sleep out here?” Malik demands.

“Are you going to kill me?” Altaïr asks.

Malik lowers his blade and shoves it back into the sheath under his djellaba. Altaïr lowers his arm more slowly, and it’s only when his hand is back at his side that he sheathes the blade with a quiet _snck._

“Why are you sleeping out here?” Malik demands.

Altaïr shifts, taking on a mulish expression. It’s familiar enough to disorient Malik; he remembers seeing that same look shortly after Altaïr broke his leg attempting his first leap of faith as a novice.

“Why do you care?” Altaïr grumbles.

Malik stares at him, irritation wriggling under his skin.

“I don’t know,” he answers slowly. “Maybe because an Assassin sleeping on a roof is a dead giveaway to even the stupidest of guards that there are _more_ Assassins nearby.”

Altaïr huffs and kneels back down by his bedroll.

“The guards don’t patrol this area at night,” he says.

Malik continues to stare. How often did Altaïr sleep here? Altaïr doesn’t seem to notice; he continues packing up until his bedroll is a tightly-bound cylinder and his sword is belted to his waist. Only then does he straighten and seem to realize that Malik is staring at him.

“Do you sleep out here every time you’re in Jerusalem?” Malik blurts out.

Altaïr ’s expression goes curiously blank. He tilts his head to the side just-so, amber eyes flat. Even without his hood up, his face is inscrutable, and Malik itches under the scrutiny.

“I will be out of your way, Dai,” Altaïr says, shouldering his bedroll.

Malik opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Altaïr watches him for a moment longer with that eerie, birdlike stare before turning and heading out across the rooftops. For a few moments, he’s a tall, thin silhouette against the dawn, his shape vaguely inhuman. Then, in a blink, he vanishes between two buildings.

Malik closes his mouth and blinks, unsettled by the vague feeling that he completely missed the conversation that just occurred. It’s far too long after Altaïr’s disappeared that Malik turns and drops back into the bureau.

He doesn’t get a chance to consider the strangeness of their morning exchange; as soon as he’s returned to the interior of the bureau, a novice is at his elbow.

“Dai, Rashid _istaaz_ has asked us to retrieve supplies from the market. Is there anything we may bring back for you?” a novice asks with their partner right behind them.

Malik scrambles for the correct answer even as he takes long, smooth strides to his office. Here he finds a list that he fortunately remembered to make the previous day, when Rashid first sought Malik’s opinion in the exercise. Together, they’d come up with a list to keep the pair running across the city. Now, Malik makes the novices memorize it before they scramble out of the bureau.

After that, he is flooded. Customers come in looking for books or scrolls, two journeymen pass through briefly on their way to Masyaf, and three customers commission maps. By the time Malik has a chance to sit or think, it is already past evening prayers.

He lowers himself to the edge of the fountain and takes a long breath. He still has to latch the ceiling grate, but as he moves to do so, a shadow passes over it. _That idiot novice_ , he fumes. He hauls himself up through the grate and freezes.

The roof is empty. No one is there.

He hangs there a moment longer, just to assure himself that there really isn’t any sign of Altaïr or any other’s presence. Then, slowly, he retreats back into the bureau and locks the grate before dropping back down to the ground. As he straightens, he fends off the gooseflesh prickling against his skin and tries to ignore the sickening feeling that something isn’t right.

He goes to bed. He wakes throughout the night, always with the needling sense that something is very wrong.

In the morning, Altaïr returns. With him comes the feather he’d procured two days prior, and Malik settles into their new routine.

This time, though, something’s off. Altaïr is silent, simply setting down the feather without a word.

“What is this? No boasts of your success?” Malik scoffs.

He gets no answer save an expressionless white hood; Altaïr ’s head is bowed enough that up to the tip of his nose is hidden. Malik scowls but relents and dismisses him. Altaïr nods slightly and walks out carefully, as if the floor is an inch lower than he expected. Malik stares after him, baffled and more than a little miffed.

That is late morning, and Malik refuses to go check on Altaïr. He briefly entertains the horrifying thought that Altaïr is done with it. Done with the vitriol and the anger. What is Malik to do if all his venom is spat at an impervious subject?

He brushes that thought away quickly. He isn’t going to have a crisis of identity because that idiot novice decides not to speak to him. He doesn’t want to think about how he could define himself if that hate was taken away. He doesn’t want to think about how little would be left.

                  As the muezzins call for evening prayer, Malik straightens and stretches out his back. He needs to find some other activity, he muses ruefully. At this rate, his body will wizen and twist like an olive tree before he is thirty.

                  He’s still considering his options as he passes through the front room. Climbing is risky and free running apt to garner the attention of the guards, but perhaps he could speak with the physician, get recommendations –

He stops, frowns. Altaïr is slumped against the pillows, hood drawn over his head and back to Malik. It isn’t unusual in and of itself, but something seems off. Even in sleep, Altaïr holds himself tense, as if he is ready to fight even as he dreams. Now, though, he slumps heavily into the pillows and their bright fabrics crumple under the weight.

Malik shakes his head and forces his steps forward. It has been many years since he saw Altaïr sleep. Perhaps he now believes himself invincible enough to relax while he rests.

He puts it from his mind and goes to get dinner.

When Altaïr hasn’t moved by the time Malik returns to lock the grate, however, he relents. He stops at the edge of the rug and stares down at Altaïr’s back. His robes need washed – the white has accumulated a faint red tint from the city dust and the hem is ragged.

“Novice,” he says, firm.

Altaïr doesn’t budge.

“Altaïr,” Malik tries again. “Get up, novice.”

Altaïr doesn’t move, and Malik steps around to his other side. Immediately, he wishes he hadn’t.

Even as a child, Altaïr was loath to visit the infirmary when injured. He would stitch his injuries shut with too-tight sutures and act as if he didn’t notice the pain they caused. Only Malik was ever allowed to tend them, and that was far more because of his stubborn insistence than any trust Altaïr put in him. By the time they were journeymen, Altaïr’s body was a calico of ragged scars.

Some things, it seems, haven’t changed. 

Altaïr’s curled around his center, hand limp over the red staining his torso. Malik kneels, knees hitting the stone floor hard, and then stops with his hand halfway to Altaïr. He knows too well the damage Altaïr can cause. Half-dead, he is hardly any less lethal. He doesn’t want his remaining arm to be victim to Altaïr’s self-defense.

“Altaïr,” he says, firm and low. “Altaïr, wake up.”

He reaches out to press his hand into the other’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly.

“Altaïr,” he repeats.

His voice sharpens, and he shakes Altaïr’s shoulder. Altaïr’s forehead scrunches before his eyes open partway. Malik shivers. Even hooded, those eyes glow an eerie gold light. He’s seen it before, had been fascinated and envious of it by turns as a child. Now, it makes his skin crawl as Altaïr blinks it away and lets his eyelids close.

“No,” he says. “Oh no you don’t. Dammit Altaïr, stay awake!”

“Dai-”

Malik looks up to find Sajid frozen in the doorway, eyes wide. For an instant, he sees the scene through Sajid’s eyes: Malik, kneeling with his hand on Altaïr, blood slowly oozing everywhere. _‘But Dai, you hate Altaïr.’_

“Get the physician,” Malik orders. “Run as if your life is at stake.”

Sajid is gone in a bolt of grey-and-white. Malik turns back to Altaïr. He can’t pick up the other man, so the pillows and rug here will have to do. He resituates the pillows into a narrow U shape so that Altaïr’s head is propped up just slightly. That done, he pulls Altaïr’s hands gently from the wound and begins removing his gear.

Altair doesn’t budge as Malik strips him. His belt, sash, and weapons go to the side of the pillows and rug. Malik pulls his tabard over Altair’s head and tugs his under tunic up around his chest. There’s a bandage over the wound, but the wound itself hasn’t been sealed, and blood still drips sluggishly down Altair’s stomach. The edges are red and sore-looking, no doubt from the bandage being too tight and Altair being too stubborn to treat it properly.

“You idiot,” Malik seethes.

Half-conscious, Altair is impervious to Malik’s anger. Malik stands, hurries to his own chambers to retrieve two bowls and a rag. Both are filled at the fountain, and he sets them at his right side when he kneels beside Altair again. Wiping away the blood reveals a deep cut but a clean one – a knife or sword, slid just to the inside of his left ribs.

“What were you doing, you shit?” he fumes.

There are noises out front, and Sajid nearly trips into the room in his haste to let the physician past. Malik moves out of the way immediately, relaying what little information he knows. A clean wound, poorly bandaged. Inflicted within the last twenty-four hours. More than that, he can only guess.

The physician is a familiar one. Nabil is discreet and efficient, his hands rough but sure. Malik kneels on Altair’s other side and watches in silence as he probes the wound. Scars crisscross Altair’s body like a battlefield. As Nabil prepares his needle for sutures, something brushes Malik’s hand. He glances down, startled.

Altair’s fingers, rust-red with his own blood, hook loosely around Malik’s middle two. For a moment, he can only stare, too confused to move. He looks to Altair’s face and finds amber eyes half open and not quite focused.

“’m sorry.”

It’s a breath, a mumble that’s nearly incoherent. Malik stares, baffled.

“’m so sorry, Malik,” Altair mumbles again.

Seemingly spent, he slumps limp against the pillows again and leaves Malik with a loose hand and confusion. He stares at Altaïr, not quite sure he didn’t imagine that. It’s only when he pulls his gaze away and finds Sajid eyeing him curiously that he’s sure he didn’t.

Nabil finishes in silence, using Sajid to help wrap Altair’s torso in a clean bandage. When it’s finished, he stands with a crack of knees and goes to wash his hands in the fountain. Malik gently disengages Altair’s hand and follows.

“Your friend is lucky,” Nabil says. “A finger’s width in any direction or any later and he would be beyond my care.”

“But he will heal,” Malik says.

Nabil glances over at him, perhaps catching the plea that Malik didn’t quite mean to allow.

“If Allah wills it,” he says. “But he is a fool for thinking he could tend it on his own.”

With that, Malik wholeheartedly agrees. He accepts the instructions Nabil gives for helping Altair heal and pays before walking him to the door. It’s only as Nabil disappears into the streets of Jerusalem that Malik remembers his question about exercise. He sighs and turns back to the interior of the bureau. He will undoubtedly see Nabil again soon enough.

Inside, Sajid stands uncertainly near Altair’s feet. Spread out like this, he looks nothing like the pride of Masyaf so much as a travel-worn young man. There is exhaustion in the shadows under his eyes and the stubble shading his thin cheeks. The scar bisecting his lips stands out stark and pale against his skin.

“What do we do now, Dai?” Sajid asks.

It breaks Malik from his reverie, and he takes a deep breath. _What now, indeed._ He releases it and moves forward once more.

“Collect his weaponry and armor,” he instructs, kneeling to begin pulling the equipment towards him.

Sajid does as told but with a small frown.

“You do not think a brother would steal his equipment, do you?” he asks. “I know Altair istaaz is not well-loved among the brotherhood, but surely that is too far.”

“I am not concerned about the brothers,” Malik says. “If Altair wakes up fully equipped, he will be gone before you can even say ‘stop.’”

Sajid pauses with Altair’s belt of throwing knives in hand.

“Truly?”

Malik sighs and sits back on his heels.

“I have known the idiot for many years,” he says. “We will be lucky if he doesn’t attempt to escape clothed only in a bandage.”

A look crosses Sajid’s face like thinking of his superior in such indignity is beyond him. For Malik, who has seen Altair sneak out a window in little more, it is an unfortunate necessity. The shepherd must know his sheep’s habits to keep them safe.

Altair does not stir while they wrap his equipment in a secure bundle and Malik stashes it within his own private quarters. Malik is grateful for it. He’s still not sure what to make of Altair’s slurred apology or how Altair might try to compensate for it. It is better, for now, to have the silence.

When they have cleaned away the bowls and what blood reached the tile, Malik dismisses Sajid to go rest. There are still a few small bloodstains in a pillow and on the rug, but Malik consoles himself with the fact that it blends in rather easily to the red patterns so long as you do not know what you are looking for and where to look.

He stands above Altair a moment, studying him. Aside from their brief altercation on the rooftop, Malik can’t remember the last time he saw Altair’s face out from under his white hood. He looks impossibly young, now, and it startles Malik with the realization that neither of them have passed thirty years. He feels ancient, some days, as if his bones remember the beginning of the world.

Altair’s face is paler than usual, and sweat has marked out tracks against it. Even now, he doesn’t look peaceful; a small furrow crinkles between his brows, and there is a tightness in his jaw.

“You stupid novice,” he says, but he can’t muster much heat.

He sits down heavily on the edge of the fountain, just meaning to rest a moment. Overhead, clouds dampen the moonlight and turn it inconstant. It passes through the gates, flickering silver against the tile, then disappears once more. Malik rests his chin in his palm and watches it absently. He needs to rise, wash, and go to bed. His regular workload will not lessen just because Altair is injured, and the next few days will surely be taxing.

He wakes to the soft noise of someone moving nearby. Altair’s eyes are open but only barely; pain keeps them narrow. The moon shines briefly, illuminating Altair’s hand where it slides toward the bandage around his chest.

“Stop.”

Malik’s voice comes out thick with sleep, and he swallows against the cottony feeling in his throat. Altair freezes, amber eyes swinging like a compass towards Malik.

“Don’t mess with it,” Malik says.

“Malik,” Altair says, hoarse.

There’s a quality to his voice Malik can’t quite parse. A plea or something of its kind – but that is impossible. The phantom sensation of fingers against his own tingles through Malik’s skin.

“You’re in the bureau in Jerusalem,” he says. “You tried to hide a stab wound that could have killed you.”

Anger bubbles through his voice like a river under ice. He’s not sure where it comes from, where this raw red originates.

Altair shrinks back against the pillows, shoulders curving inwards. The opium Nabil gave him clearly hasn’t worn off yet; his face crumples like a child’s, hurt and a little petulant. His thumb picks at the top of the bandage but goes no further, so Malik lets it be.

“Thought it was fine,” Altair mumbles. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“Didn’t want” – Malik breaks off and releases a seething breath through his teeth – “The bureau exists to serve the Brotherhood, you idiot.”

Altair looks up, then, meeting Malik’s eyes. Even drug-hazy and not quite focused, there is something eerie about his gold eyes. Malik’s skin itches under their stare.

“Am I your Brother, Malik?” Altair asks.

Malik freezes, jaw partially open. The question throws him off-kilter. Kadar was his brother, the whole of Masyaf his Brothers. Malik doesn’t know where Altair falls. He should be with the latter, one white hood among a sea of them, anonymous and equal.

He isn’t. He never has been. When they were children, Altair was his closest friend and near-constant companion. As they grew, that changed but never quite fell away. Though Altair has long been the champion of Masyaf, Malik has ever nipped at his heels. From a class of twenty-odd novices, they had always been one and two. It bred friendship, then competition, then rivalry. And always, always, them together, separate from the rest.

Before he can pick an answer from this flood of history, Altair has fallen asleep. Malik closes his jaw with a quiet click and stares at the limp figure before him. His mind is suddenly, painfully awake.

Had any other Assassin led to Kadar’s death, he would resent them. This is true. He _knows_ it. And yet – would he treat them this way? Would he set aside so much energy for hating them?

It’s an uncomfortable thought, that he has once again set Altair apart from all the others, made him something more than an Assassin, more than one of hundreds. If he hates Altair because of what he caused to happen to Kadar, it’s justified. It’s fair. If he hates Altair because it was a betrayal of a friendship that had died long ago?

“Idiot,” he mutters, burying his face in his hand.

He’s not sure which of them he’s talking to.


	2. Chapter 2

                  Altaïr sleeps for most of the next two days. He wakes only to relieve himself and eat the light meals Malik sets before him. Even when Malik changes Altaïr’s bandage, they do not speak.

                  By the end of the second day, Malik realizes a change is in order. While he’s managed to keep Altaïr hidden for now, the room is meant for brothers to rest briefly in between missions, not for one to convalesce for two weeks.

                  “Come,” he says, extending his hand.

                  Altaïr accepts only after a long moment of wary consideration. A flicker of pain flits across his face as Malik helps heave him to his feet.

                  “You need to rest,” Malik says, “but here will not do. There is an open bunk in the back.”

                  Under Malik’s arm, the muscles of Altaïr’s back jump. Malik pauses, turning to Altaïr with raised eyebrows, but Altaïr averts his eyes as if studying the tile floor.

                  “You aren’t afraid of the bunkroom,” Malik says, incredulous.

                  For a moment, he thinks Altaïr will refuse to answer. Then, grudging –

                  “I do not have friends in the Order.”

                  Malik stares.

                  “You think they would kill you?” he demands.

                  “Accidents happen,” Altaïr says, glancing over through his lashes.

                  It seems ridiculous, like egotistical paranoia – and yet, the tone of the journeymen rings in his ears even two days later. Besides, no matter Altaïr’s ego, he has always had an uncanny sense of allies and enemies.

                  “Very well.” He sighs and turns them toward his own chambers.

                  Altaïr follows with a slight lag, as if he hasn’t quite caught up to what Malik intends. When they make it to his bedchamber, Altaïr digs in his heels like a willful camel. Malik stops with a frustrated huff of air and turns to find Altaïr staring with wide amber eyes.

                  “What?” he demands.

                  “I can’t” – Altaïr shakes his head and swallows – “I don’t want to intrude.”

                  Malik scoffs and tugs them back into motion towards his bed.

                  “It is too late for that,” he says. “If you won’t rest in the bunkroom and you can’t rest in the foyer, this is the only option.”

                  Altaïr still drags his feet.

                  “I can sleep on the floor,” he says. “I don’t want to displace you.”

                  “You are injured,” Malik points out.

                  “You are – ”

                  Altaïr breaks off and Malik turns to him, expectant. Altaïr’s expression is crumpled, like a fragile clay mask dropped onto tile.

                  “Crippled?” he suggests.

                  Altaïr’s expression turns briefly panicked, and Malik takes pity.

                  “Fine,” he says. “We will share the bed like novices.”

                  This doesn’t seem to console Altaïr in the slightest; the expressions that flicker across his face like a glowworm are indecipherable to Malik, but they aren’t relief. This time, though, he does allow Malik to guide him toward the bed.

                  He sits down heavily, admitting a fatigue that Malik hadn’t fully realized was there. His hand slides to his chest absently. Malik takes a step back, his hand falling back to his side. Altaïr looks…young. Vulnerable.

                  It’s an uncomfortable thought.

                  “I’ll be back with dinner,” he says and flees.

                  Nabil had recommended light foods, small portions. Malik returns with a plate of unleavened bread and sliced fruit and hands it to Altaïr. Altaïr’s fingertips brush Malik’s hand in passing, callouses rough against his skin. Malik pulls away quickly and nearly drops the plate. Altaïr’s hands tense around the edge and he shoots Malik a startled, baffled look.

                  “I have work to finish,” Malik says.

                  He slips out of the bedroom into his office and tugs out a battered leather ledger. As far as pressing matters go, this…isn’t one. Still, he flips through the worn pages until he finds the first blank column and starts tallying. Food, ink, fabric – each row is marked with how much was used through the day, and the total summed up in the second half of the column.

                  It’s repetitive work, the kind of arithmetic he’s been doing since he was a child. The only challenge is recalling his own memory of how much of each was used. It fills his mind with a detached sort of calm that comes not from any resolution of the day’s problems but from a simple distance from them.

                  By the time it’s finished, Malik has lit a lamp and placed it on his left side. The red-gold glow flickers over the paper of the ledger, casting strange shadows from the quill held firm in his right hand. They quiver and stretch, tremulous dancers in the night. Setting the quill carefully in its inkwell, Malik rubs at his eye.

                  He steps down from his stool and massages his shoulder. He locks the grate without much thought and drops down on quiet feet. Plucking the lamp from his desk, he heads into his room while stifling a yawn.

                  He freezes.

                  Gold light flickers over Altaïr’s front. His head’s tucked into his chest, brown hair tousled and flattened up along the side pressed into the pillow. One hand is tucked underneath the pillow and the other curls near his collarbones.

                  It’s ridiculous, and yet – somehow it slipped his mind that Altaïr would be in his bed. Malik can feel his steps grow shorter, back stiff with discomfort, as he steps around the end of the bed to the other side. He shucks off his djelleba and outer tunic but pauses in his second to last layer. Normally, he wouldn’t even think before stripping. But. But normally he is alone in his bed.

                  He fidgets. Altaïr is naked under the blankets, he knows. It is normal. To sleep dressed would only serve to make Altaïr suspicious. Besides, it’s not as if they’ll be snuggled up next to each other.

                  Malik groans and drags his hand down his face. He strips briskly and crawls into bed, curling up on the far edge.

                  He wakes slowly, warm and comfortable. His dreams escape his grasp, but their feeling of security lingers. He blinks away the drowsiness and breathes in slowly. Moving to roll onto his back, he freezes.

                  Skin rubs against his, firm muscle in the way of the normally empty bed.

                  He flails out of bed, landing on his feet only by luck. He stumbles back, hitting the wall. A map crumples at his back. He swallows and stares at Altaïr.

                  Altaïr hasn’t moved. He still lays on his side, curled protectively around his center. He’s inched closer in his sleep, apparently, moving from the far edge of the mattress to near center. His back rests just to the side of the impression left by Malik’s.

                  It’s ridiculous, he can admit, how unsettled he is. This is neither the first time Altaïr’s been injured nor the first time they shared a bed. Once upon a time, both of these were the normal state of things. A deviation would have been more unsettling.

                  But now – now, they are strangers to each other. Malik knows so little of what happens in Altaïr’s life, and he has barred Altaïr from knowing any more about his own life. Somehow, this is more disconcerting than if they had always been strangers. There is a new dissonance in each action they take, in each moment they are in the other’s company. They are haunted by the echoes of their shared past, of Malik’s expectation of what Altaïr would have done those years ago and Altaïr’s of what Malik would have said.

                  Malik scrubs at his face. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, much less of someone living and breathing in the very same room as him. They are not haunted but plagued, and illness can be driven out.

                  Thus resolved, he straightens and takes a deep breath, focusing on the details of _now_ instead of _then._ The air is cool against his blanket-warm skin, his back a little stiff from the way he slept. He takes in another deep breath and opens his eyes. The light coming in in the other room is a watery gold, diluted by the angle and the path it marks through the courtyard and into the office.

                  He picks his clothes up from where he'd left them the night before and shucks them on as he walks across the room. It's harder to secure these with one hand than it was before, but he has grown accustomed to it over the past year, and the djelleba hides most awkward drapes or folds. It is certainly the most appreciated aspect of this new addition to his garb.

                  He clambers up to the roof as always and stands on the edge, breathing deeply. The sky is low and brooding, heavy grey clouds just above them. He feels as if he could reach up and touch them, as if the whole world has been compressed to such small size as to barely surpass his height. He reaches his hand up tentatively before catching himself and tugging it back to his side. 

                  He turns back to the bureau, to the slow-waking assassins uncurling from their bunks below.

                  Altaïr does not stir for the entire morning, and Malik doesn't check in on him. There are plenty of other tasks that are more pressing: the novices need training and lessons, the journeymen need assistance on their missions, and the master assassins who are not injured require their own attention. He is kept busy all the morning, running back and forth between his many tasks.

                  Deep down, he knows himself well enough to be aware that he is deluding himself. The downside to those parts of himself - that logic and rationality - is that he cannot well hide from himself. Still, he stubbornly turns aside from that part of him and tugs the djelleba a little closer.

                  It is only when the bureau quiets for lunch that he finally relents. The city has grown mild in the noon lull, and he cannot justify avoiding Altaïr anymore. He walks as slowly as he can permit himself before he realizes it and adjusts to his normal pace.

                  Altaïr is awake when he enters. He lays on his back, hands folded over his stomach and a small frown on his face as he stares up at Malik's ceiling. It takes a moment for Malik to realize what he's looking at so intently. When he does, his skin inches with discomfort. He does not share his private rooms; they bleed too much of himself into the open, like a slow-leaking wound that drips blood into waiting hands.

                  "Did you make all of these?" Altaïr asks without pulling his gaze away from the ceiling.

                  Malik looks, reluctantly, to the map Altaïr is studying. It is one of his, one he made when he first came to Jerusalem, as an erstwhile promise that his ventures would not be halted by this setback but only postponed a brief time. It is messier than the others, the lines a little too sharp and bold.

                  "Yes," he finally says.

                  He forces himself to step fully into the room, reminding himself that the chambers are his and that he has more of a right to be in them than Altaïr.

                  "How do you feel?" he asks.

                  Altaïr pinches the top of the bandage between his fingers absently but doesn't pull his gaze away from the maps pinned to the ceiling. His eyes rove over them restlessly, hungrily, as if he can devour all the information contained within them. Malik's skin crawls at the thought that he might find within them something Malik is not prepared to share.

                  "Altaïr," he says a little sharply.

                  Altaïr finally pulls his gaze away from the maps and to Malik. His expression is a little tight.

                  "I am fine," he says. "I could have handled this myself."

                  "You nearly died," Malik retorts. "I should not be surprised that that is your definition of handling it."

                  Altaïr scowls and turns his gaze down towards the bandage. He has not mentioned the events of that day yet, and Malik skirts around it as carefully as he can.

                  "Are you hungry?" he asks before Altaïr can say anything.

                  Altaïr shrugs listlessly, picking at the bandage once more. It's enough to drive Malik mad, and he reaches across the bed unthinkingly, swatting at Altaïr's hand.

                  "Stop that," he says. "Just leave it be."

                  "It is my body," Altaïr snaps.

                  Malik raises his eyebrow, unimpressed. Altaïr looks away with a scowl, hands curling into fists over his gut. Silence stretches between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Rolling his eyes, Malik settles his hand on his hip and huffs out a breath.

                  “Altaïr, you’re behaving like a child,” he scolds.

                  Altaïr’s jaw tightens, and he tucks his chin a little, gaze focused firmly on the far corner of the room. He mutters something, though Malik can really only tell by the movement of his lips; it’s far too quiet to make out.

                  “What is it?” he asks.

                  Altaïr tenses, knuckles bleeding white as his fists tighten. He swallows hard and doesn’t look up when he speaks.

                  “I don’t deserve this,” he says.

                  Disbelief and anger surge through Malik, nearly cancelling each other out in their intensity. His eyebrows rise and stay stuck there as he stares at Altaïr. _He_ _doesn’t deserve this? How dare he_ – If Altaïr wasn’t already injured, Malik’s fairly sure he’d punch him.

                  “Oh, forgive me,” Malik says, sweet as spoiled fruit, “it is so far beneath the Eagle of Masyaf to be injured, isn’t it? Perhaps-”

                  Altaïr turns to him then, furrowed brows creasing and then rising.

                  “I didn’t – ”

                  “Perhaps, if you ever followed the Creed and didn’t run about like an idiot, you would not need – ”

                  “I don’t deserve help!”

                  Malik’s jaw closes with a click. Altaïr’s jaw trembles with how hard he’s biting down, but his startled eyes stay locked on Malik’s. He looks almost as surprised as Malik feels. Malik opens his mouth to speak, pauses, and closes it again. Altaïr turns away from him, shoulder hiking up towards his ears, and jaw clenched. Malik stares at him for a long moment, at the tanned skin criss-crossed with scars and the white bandage wrapped over his middle.

                  “Altaïr – ”

                  “Don’t.”

                  A sigh rushes out of Malik, taking with it the anger and fight that had built up in his shoulders. They slump now, weariness settling like a mantle across his back.

                  Stepping closer to the bed, he sinks down onto the foot of the mattress and runs his hand over his face. Behind him, Altaïr seems to hold perfectly still, and Malik wonders with a bleak sort of amusement if Altaïr will pretend to be asleep to avoid this conversation.

                  “Altaïr, you are a member of the Order,” he says eventually. “If you are injured, you receive help. That is how the brotherhood works.”

                  Altaïr says nothing, and Malik pauses, letting his gaze roam over the maps on his walls. The one directly before him is of Egypt, and his eyes trace the contours of the Nile as it curls black against the parchment to spill into the sea. The corner is crumpled from where his back hit it this morning.

                   “I do not know where this is coming from,” he starts, “but the Order cannot survive your loss. Bringing harm to yourself will only hurt us.”

                  When there is no response to this, either, Malik sighs and stands. He makes his way around the edge of the bed on quiet feet and pauses at the foot of the bed. Thoughts crowd the back of his throat, seeking words he can’t find.

                  “Whatever you are fighting,” he finally says, “it needn’t be alone.”

                  Altaïr makes no reply, and after a moment, Malik walks quietly from the room.

                  Once in his office, he finds he has no appetite for lunch and returns instead to his work. His brief interaction with Altaïr has left him unsettled, his stomach turned uneasy with something he cannot quite explain. The apology, the late-night question – and now this. He has known Altaïr for nearly two decades now, and yet none of these exchanges fit with the man he thought he knew.

                  He pushes himself into work, into drilling those novices who come through and aiding the elder assassins who also do. Altaïr stays in the back room, and Malik’s gaze does not stray towards the doorway.

                  When dinner comes, Malik eats in his office and takes a small plate to Altaïr. The brothers who eat in the main area sneak surreptitious glances his way but ask no questions. Undoubtedly, the rumor of Altaïr’s injury has already been spread throughout the entirety of the Mashriq. The thought is a small irritation. For all their emphasis on subtlety and stealth, the Brotherhood is rife with gossips.

                  Altaïr blinks awake as Malik enters, brow furrowing before his eyes open. For an instant, as his brow smooths over and he blinks sleepily up at Malik, Malik can feel his heart stop. _Oh,_ he thinks dumbly, _Oh no._

                  With his tired eyes and unworried expression, Altaïr seems too soft, too intimate in the moment. It calls up old feelings that Malik has buried, for years, under resentment and anger and hate. He tamps down on it quickly, trying to stamp it out, but it’s too late. They’ve been here too long, are too deeply rooted in his chest. All he can do now is what he has done for half their lives – contain it and mitigate the potential damage.

                  “Malik?” Altaïr asks in a voice that suggests it isn’t his first time.

                  He’s pushed himself upright now, as if ready to spring into action in a bandage and bedsheet. Malik’s shoulders drop and he shakes himself.

                  “Is something wrong?” Altaïr asks.

                  “No,” Malik says, shaking his head. “Just lost in thought. I brought dinner.”

                  Altaïr takes the proffered plate after a small pause. He still watches Malik carefully, but Malik brushes it aside as he walks around the bed to sit down on the opposite corner.

                  “It is unlike you to be lost,” Altaïr says after a moment.

                   Malik frowns, eyeing the maps behind Altaïr. These are older ones, their lines shakier and marked by strikes of hesitation, drips of ink. He spends so little time looking at them that he's nearly forgotten their existence and it's with a small start that he realizes he really ought to replace them.

                  "And it is unlike you to rest," he says with a small shrug.

                  Immediately, Altaïr 's expression darkens and turns pinched, and Malik fights back a groan. Of course that's how he takes it - a condemnation rather than a quip.

                  "That doesn't always make it a bad thing," he remarks, trying to distract Altaïr.

                  It works. Altaïr looks up, amber eyes focusing too closely on Malik. His frown remains, but it has morphed into something a bit more inquisitive, more prying. Malik shies away from the scrutiny.

                  "Eat," he says instead, looking and gesturing to the plate still held gently between calloused hands.

                  Altaïr follows his instruction after a drawn moment. He eats carefully, delicately, as if he's afraid to make a mess. It's a strange sight, to see such a rough man move with such gingerness.

                  Malik catches himself watching too closely after a moment and turns his attention to the edge of his djelleba, where a white thread has pulled loose of the black cloth. It's pointless to try knotting it with only one hand, so instead he picks at it until it comes free. Left behind is a thinner, tufted strand. He smooths it down over the white embroidery until it can almost be ignored and turns his attention to the rest of the room.

                  Sitting still has never been his strength, and with all the thoughts he currently seeks to avoid, it is an agony. His body longs to move, to vent the energy and confusion and frustration pent up within. It would be easy enough to excuse himself, to leave for work he has left beyond this room - but he finds he has no urge to leave.

                  The room is quiet, the noises from beyond its four walls muted by the stone, and for once, it is not tense or needling. It is...soothing. Despite himself, he finds his mind wandering back to other quiets they shared, when they were younger and each other's company was enough to still their restless souls.

                  "Thank you," Altaïr says after a few minutes, "for dinner."

                  Malik looks up, startled by the words, but Altaïr appears intently focused on where his thumbtip presses into the plate. As Malik watches, he traces a small curve into the edge of the plate with his fingernail. Malik reaches out, taking the plate.

                  "Of course," he says. "Is there anything you need before I go finish my work?"

                  Altaïr opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it again. Raising his eyebrow, Malik waits.

                  "My equipment," Altaïr finally says, "where is it?"

                  "Safe," Malik replies.

                  This is enough to make Altaïr look up, a familiar shade of frustration darkening his eyes. Standing, Malik shakes his head.

                  "You're not running off anywhere, Altaïr," he says. "You'd kill yourself before you made it half a mile."

                  "I should not lie here doing nothing," Altaïr retorts. "It is a waste."

                  Malik pauses, staring at him. Altaïr 's shoulders have hitched up again, defensive. He wonders briefly at how he hadn't noticed that that tic remained after all these years. He'd assumed it would have vanished sometime in that period when Altaïr decided he was above the menialities of other novices. He's not sure what to think about being wrong.

                  "Your _death_ would be a waste," he says. "There will be plenty of time later for you to make up whatever work is missed now."

                  It's colder than he means, but he's not sure how else to get through to Altaïr. This reckless self-sacrifice runs edgewise against his nerves, setting his hair on end. Altaïr used to care more about his life, he thinks. Or perhaps he's simply better at hiding it when he can cover his eyes with the white cowl.

                  "If you are really so bored, I'm sure there is work you can do here," Malik finally concedes. "But do not overstrain yourself."

                  Altaïr slumps a little, shoulders relaxing down from his ears. When he looks up at Malik again, it is with a cautious hope.

                  "I would appreciate that," he admits.

                  Malik nods. It's a humbler response than he expected, but he's starting to accustom himself to Altaïr 's surprises. After this many months avoiding him, it is little wonder he need reacclimate himself to the other man.

                  "Very well," he says. "Rest for now and I will see what I can find for you for tomorrow."

                  After a pause, Altaïr accepts this with a small nod, and Malik continues from the room. The dining hall is empty when he passes through to replace Altaïr 's plate, and he's silently grateful for the absence of knowing stares. He has no wish to hide from his Brothers, but he feels unsteady somehow, as if his footing is not quite as sure as he thought this morning or the morning before that.

                  The work he has left takes only another half hour to complete, but already the sun is low enough to warrant a lamp. It glows gold in the purple of dusk and throws the shadow of his quill long against the far wall, stretched and thin. Setting aside the last of his papers, he turns to the task of finding something for Altaïr.

                  There is ever an abundance of work in the bureau, but he hesitates at much of it. Altaïr is likely not nearly as healed as he would have others believe, and Malik is loath to set him to a task that will only reopen his wound. A voice, small and bitter, chastises him for this softness. If Altaïr is foolish enough to think himself well, then it is not Malik's job to safeguard him. Better to let the fool learn from his own mistakes.

                  He pushes down that voice. Altaïr is not the only one healing, and perhaps the time for toxin is past. He has never thought himself a benevolent man, but it doesn't hurt to try. _I am too old for this,_ he thinks, rubbing his hand over his face. Pulling it away, he grimaces; blue ink clings to the callouses on the inside of his finger, and he can only imagine the state of his forehead.

                  Settling the quill back in its well, he stands and makes his way out to the fountain. The water is cool against his skin, sending a shiver of gooseflesh up his arm, but the ink washes away quickly enough. After scrubbing at his face, he sighs and drops his arm to rest on the fountain edge.

                  The night noise of Jerusalem and its sticky-sweet scents are carried together on the chill breeze, sighing in through the overhead grates. Distant from here, he can here the rhythmic steps of the nightwatch. Farther yet, laughter as if from a party. A distant strain of music sings on the edge of his hearing.

                  And closer, near to him and too far to see, there are the noises of the bureau itself. Brothers speak in quiet murmurs in the back rooms. A mattress rustles. If he focuses, he can almost convince himself he hears Altaïr, though he knows it’s only his own breathing.

                  Sitting down on the edge of the fountain, he turns his face skyward, to the moon and the vagrant clouds. Here, in the safety of the shadows, he lets his mind turn where he would not hours ago.

                  When he was young, at first, he had brushed his feelings for Altaïr away as infatuation at best – nothing more than admiration tangled up in teenage hormones, most likely. As they grew older and the feelings persisted, he conceded that Altaïr was physically attractive and that proximity made his lust fairly predictable, even after the temple. Hate was a form of passion, after all.

                  Now, alone in the night, he can admit that perhaps those old justifications aren’t sufficient. As appealing as Altaïr’s lithe body is, there is very little room for sexual attraction when helping an injured man to the latrine. And his worry – that, he cannot pretend is anything other than what it is.

                  He sighs and leans forward to rub his forehead with his hand. An immense weariness has settled over him of a sudden. This is an unreciprocated love, he knows. He remembers too well Altaïr’s love for Adha and the bleak grief that had consumed him after her death. Though their friendship had been tenuous at best by then, it still leaves a hollow hurt in Malik’s chest at the though of Altaïr’s pain.

                  The knowledge of his love being unrequited is not quite as despairing as it once might have been. He knows, by now, that he will find love throughout his life and, if he is fortunate, some of them may even be his to hold. Someday, if he is truly blessed, one will even be his to marry. If Altaïr were to reciprocate, theirs would be a fleeting thing, ephemeral and secret. It is better, perhaps, that Altaïr does not return his feelings.

                  They once loved each other as brothers. They could still yet. It would be enough.

                  He stands and turns back to his rooms without another look toward the erstwhile moon. Inside, Altaïr is tucked tight in the same position as the previous night, a frown crinkling his brow. Malik leaves his clothing neatly folded on his trunk and slides into bed, too tried for second thoughts.

                  He closes his eyes to the maps hanging shadowed before him. The night sounds still sing softly through the breeze, and the space between his and Altaïr’s backs is comfortably warm. _It is enough,_ he thinks as he catches one last distant peal of laughter.

                  It is enough.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

                  He wakes slowly, still clinging to the edges of his dreams. The shapes of them are uncertain, already half-vanished, but their feeling remains like late morning sunlight and the safety of home. For a few moments, he simply lays there and lets his body gradually adjust to consciousness. His breaths are slow and easy, and he lets himself slowly become aware of the scents of morning – the early cooking and the crisp smoke.

                  He opens his eyes partway, still half-lidded with sleep. Altaïr studies him, face keenly alert and amber eyes narrowed in thought. Malik takes in his expression and nestles back into the mattress, closing his eyes.

                  “Your face will stick that way, you know,” he warns nonsensically.

                  Whatever turmoil Altaïr is battling now can wait until Malik’s properly awake to be addressed. He settles in for a little more sleep.

                  “How can you sleep so peacefully with me beside you?” Altaïr murmurs.

                  “Love makes us idiots,” Malik mumbles into the pillow.

                  His breathing is evening out now, settling into a sleep rhythm again, and it takes a moment for him to notice the sudden tension in the room. He thinks back over what he said, freezes, and then curses himself once and then two more times. He’s already thinking of excuses, of ways to brush it off, but when he rolls over and sees Altaïr’s expression he knows he can’t. His surprise is too honest, too vulnerable.

                  He sighs and pushes himself upright, to sit cross-legged on the mattress. Altaïr sits up as well but more slowly, as if wary.

                  “Love,” he repeats, somewhere halfway between a question and a statement.

                  His voice is nearly childish in tone, so surprised by the thought.

                  “Yes,” Malik says, though he’s cursing himself a fourth time for good measure.

                  “You love me,” Altaïr says.

 _Believe me, it is not by choice,_ Malik thinks but doesn’t say. There’s no going back from this, and he might as well take the plunge all at once. He has held this secret for so long. If he is to let it go now, it is not time for half-measures. Still, he clings to some measure of familiar cynicism.

                  “So it seems,” he says instead.

                  Altaïr’s earlier frown has returned but deeper, more distressed. His shoulders are curved in towards his center.

                  “After everything?” he asks. “Still?”

                  Malik shrugs and spreads his hand. He has come to terms with this, even if his mind rebels against it. The heart is a wild thing and it has no respect for the walls of logic. He might not appreciate it, but he cannot deny that much.

                  “You have seen my soul,” he answers. “How could we be strangers after that?”

                  Altaïr’s brow furrows, pressing down into a severe frown. His fingers are knotted together between his knees so that the knuckles bleed near-white, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

                  “I do not deserve” – he breaks off, pressing his lips together in frustration. He closes his eyes, swallows, and meets Malik’s gaze – “I do not deserve your love.”

                  Malik sighs, shoulders collapsing in. He feels so old suddenly; his very bones are weary.

                  “I do not know that love uses a scale,” he says. “We love who we love.”

                  The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Altaïr; if anything, his frown deepens. Before he can begin some form of repentant self-flagellation, Malik reaches out to forestall him.

                  “I have loved you for years, Altaïr. Even when I hated you. I do not expect you to reciprocate,” he says, “but I believe we both deserve honesty in this matter at least.”

                  Altaïr stares back at him, eyes a little wide and something desperate deep within them. Malik isn’t entirely surprised that he has no reply; Altaïr has never been eager to share feelings, and tact has never been a strength. A little disappointment sighs through him, of course, but he accepts that as only natural. It’s hard to feel content when such a raw confession is met with silence. He’ll get over it.

                  For now, he presses his hand against his knee and levers himself off the bed. The bureau will not wait for Altaïr to finish processing this conversation, and he cannot afford to.

                  “I must get to work,” he says. “If you are bored, there will be work made available within the bureau. Otherwise, I will see you for lunch.”

                  With that, he leaves and sets about his morning tasks. The conversation lingers in his mind as he works, but he decides it is a relief. Better to let it air out than to keep it closed and festering. Perhaps it will let him move on more readily, and even if it doesn’t, at least he will not have the burden of secrecy to weigh him down. _Yes_ , he decides, _it is much better to have it out in the open._

                  He pushes himself into his daily tasks with the kind of single-mindedness he wore when he first arrived in Jerusalem, when he would have done anything for a distraction from all that plagued him. That it is Altaïr, once again, who is responsible for this isn’t lost on him.

                  The other Brothers within the bureau seem to avoid him throughout the morning, though Malik can’t say for certain whether it’s intentional or just a byproduct of his focus. He takes advantage of it to work on one of the commissioned maps. It’s soothing work: the long, straight lines are simple enough to relax him and the details sufficient to require his full focus. By the time he pauses to look up, it’s nearly noon, and he’s not alone.

                  “Sajid,” he greets, startled.

                  He hadn’t heard anyone enter, and it’s disorienting to realize he’d been so engrossed as to lose track of his surroundings. Slipping his quill back into the inkwell, he berates himself silently for the mistake.

                  “Dai,” Sajid says, “I wished to apologize for my behavior. It was wrong of me to think you would let personal feelings overrule your loyalty to the Order. I should not have questioned you in front of the Brothers. I am sorry.”

                  For a moment, Malik can only stare back at Sajid and rack his brain for the incident referenced. So much has happened in this morning alone that a week ago seems decades past. He shakes his head and chooses his words carefully.

                  “I appreciate your apology,” he says. “It is a mark of wisdom to admit to your mistakes. The reprimand I gave that day, though, was one I needed myself.”

                  As he speaks, Sajid’s brow has furrowed. It hasn’t been so long since Malik himself was a journeyman, and he remembers how it seemed all the Dais and Rafiqs spoke in riddles and puzzles. Watching Sajid’s expression now, it’s hard to ignore the reversal. He takes pity.

                  “I accept your apology,” he says, “but I must also thank you for the opportunity to learn to better serve the Order myself. Our brotherhood is strongest when we learn from each other.”

                  A light catches in Sajid’s eyes, something like pride at Malik’s words. He ducks his head but not before Malik catches the smallest of smiles on his lips.

                  “I am grateful to be able to share in your tutelage, Dai,” he says. “I look forward to the next time I may.”

                  He bows and, with a final farewell, departs. Malik watches him go like watching a memory fade. Sajid and Kadar were novices together, and their personalities much alike. As he leaves, now, though, Malik knows that that, too, is ending. When Sajid returns, if his journey brings him back this way, he will not be the boy he now seems. He will be grown into a man Kadar never was and never will be. The illusion will be shattered.

                  It makes Malik’s heart pang a little at the loss. So much has changed in the past year, and part of him clings to the now as if he can keep it. What stability he’s found is precious to him, and the thought of further change, daunting.

                  He takes a breath and stretches his back before standing. Clinging to the past has never served anyone.

                  Stopping in the kitchen, he greets the brothers there but doesn’t dawdle. Tempting as it is to stall, he is resolved to see this through and meet it head-on. As long as he’s collected and reasonable, he can hold out hope that Altaïr will simply pretend their earlier conversation never happened and carry on with his usual emotionally stunted self.

                  Altaïr is sitting up when Malik enters, the blankets pulled neatly around his waist. He looks up when Malik comes in. There’s something in his expression that makes Malik pause at the threshold: a stubborn determination he hasn’t seen in years. He cants his head a little but takes another step into the room. He stops by the bed and extends one of the plates.

                  “Lunch,” he says by way of explanation.

                  There is a slight pause before Altaïr takes the plate, and when he does, it’s with a deep frown. Malik eyes him a moment before shaking it off and taking a seat at the foot of the bed. With the way Altaïr’s moved up to the top of the bed, they’re still near to each other but do not touch. Altaïr stares down at his plate without eating, and Malik stares at him, baffled.

                  “This morning,” Altaïr starts, and Malik braces himself, “you said we both deserved honesty. I…am not skilled with words.”

                  Before Malik has a chance to comment, Altaïr moves. His hand is warm against Malik’s jaw; the callouses rub against his stubble. His lips are softer than Malik expects. They’re dry and gentle, just a chaste press against Malik’s. When Altaïr pulls away, it is only barely. They breathe the same air as Malik stares, wide-eyed at Altaïr. Altaïr meets his gaze with an unrelenting intensity in his own.

                  “I have loved you since before I knew a word for what I felt – when all I could call it was your name,” he says.

                  They’re close enough Malik can feel Altaïr’s words against his lips. His hand has gone slack against the plate in his lap, and it slips an inch down his robes. He can’t move to stop it.

                  Altaïr’s eyes flit across his face before he leans back, pulling his hand away. In its absence, Malik can still feel where he touched, as if it left a physical mark.

                  “I – you – _what?”_ he stammers.

                  “I cannot believe I deserve your love,” Altaïr says, “but I would not have you believe it unrequited.”

                  “But – why now?” Malik demands.

                  For a moment, it seems Altaïr won’t respond. He’s turned his attention to the food on his plate but only fiddles with it and doesn’t eat it.

                  “After…after the Temple” – he breaks off and looks away, to the maps on the far wall. Watching him, Malik can see the muscles of his jaw and neck shifting, and a strange sense of pity hits him. Altaïr shakes his head and looks back down to the plate abandoned on his lap. “But after what you said this morning – it only seemed fair to be honest in return.”

                  He looks up and meets Malik’s eyes. Tiredness shows through every line of his face, from his missions and his injury – and something else besides.

                  "I expect nothing, Malik,” he says. “I have done the unforgiveable and I - I ask nothing of you.”

                  “And if I were to ask it of you?”

                  Altaïr’s expression is nearly childlike in its open surprise. Malik swallows and presses onward.

                  “If I were to ask of you what you will not ask of me – would you be willing?” he asks.

                  A frown has creased Altaïr’s surprise, and he closes his mouth into a flat line.

                  “Are you joking?” he asks.

                  “I’ve never been known for my pranks, Altaïr,” Malik replies, dry. “I have made my feelings clear. If I asked, would you say yes?”

                  There’s a beat before Altaïr’s expression settles into something firm, resolute.

                  “Yes,” he answers.

                  He says it like an oath, like some unbreakable vow. Despite himself, Malik feels an irrepressible trill twist through his chest at Altaïr’s sincerity. He tucks it deep next to his heart. Altaïr is watching him closely again, all that uncanny focus narrowed down to Malik. That, too, pleases him. He sets his plate aside on the bed and twists towards Altaïr.

                  “Very well,” he says. “I’d like to kiss you now.”

                  A grin breaks across Altaïr’s lips, quick and bright, before he leans forward to meet Malik halfway. This isn’t the chaste brush of their first. They have both had other lovers, and it shows in this second kiss. Though Altaïr lets Malik take the lead, he is hardly a passive recipient. His hand cups the back of Malik’s head and tilts it just-so. Malik’s fingers curl into Altaïr’s hair and tug. His hair is longer than Malik’s, and Malik’s fingers skate over an old scar hidden within it.

                  He remembers this one, remembers the terror of seeing blood run freely down Altaïr’s neck to stain his grey robes. At the time, he had half-carried Altaïr back to Masyaf and prayed all the while to a god whose name he didn’t know.

                  Now, he crowds Altaïr back against the wall and presses closer. His mouth is hot and hungry, and Malik shudders with quiet delight. A muffled groan slips out of Altaïr and one of his hands slides under Malik’s djelleba to settle over his ribs, just below the remains of his left arm.

                  It is a long moment before Malik breaks the kiss. He stops with their foreheads resting together and both chests heaving, as if they are teenagers. He’d feel ridiculous if it weren’t for the heat still buzzing through his body at Altaïr’s touch. It’s intoxicating as any wine he’s drunk, and already he longs for more.

                  “You are injured,” he says, half to himself.

                  “I am fine,” Altaïr insists, pressing close again.

                  Malik tightens his hand in Altaïr’s hair just enough to stop him and leans back with an exhale. Altaïr scowls a little but doesn’t pull forward.

                  “I do not care to explain to the physician how you have ripped out your stitches while in my bed,” Malik retorts.

                  A light blush spreads across Altaïr’s cheeks, and he relents, leaning back. The movement causes Malik’s hand to slid forward so that his thumbtip rests on Altaïr’s cheekbone and Altaïr’s hands to slip to Malik’s hips. They settle there, considering each other.

                  Altaïr’s hair is tousled and lips a sweet red. His scar is a thin white line against them. As Malik’s gaze roves over Altaïr’s face, he knows Altaïr does the same with his own. He wonders at what he sees there. New scars, from shaving without a second hand to balance the blade. Creases, from a year’s worth of scowls and frowns – but what else? What that makes him lift his hand and cup it around Malik’s jaw with a tenderness reserved for spring blossoms and holy books?

                  “I did not ever believe you could love me,” he murmurs.

                  The past week has more than made it clear that Altaïr is not the man Malik made him out to be, and this last admission only affirms that. His heart hurts for the absence in which the change has occurred, even as he knows that their separation provided necessary room for both of them to grow.

                  He strokes his thumb in a gentle arc over Altaïr’s cheekbone before he sighs and shifts so that he is beside Altaïr instead of straddling him. Their plates have both been knocked across the blankets, and as he moves, a date rolls off the edge of the bed and hits the ground with a quiet thud.

                  “I have spent a lot of time hating you,” Malik confesses. “I have…been so angry with you.”

                  Altaïr dips his head in Malik’s periphery but offers no protest.

                  “I am tired,” Malik says.

 _Of being angry, of hating you, of being alone._ He doesn’t know which he means, except, perhaps, all of them at once. He’s always been independent, but there is a difference between that and being alone. They were friends, once, and with that came a certain measure of security. He hasn’t had that for a while now.

                  Altaïr threads his fingers through Malik’s, bringing their hands pressed palm-to-palm. His hand is firm and strong. Even the halved ring finger presses warmth into Malik’s hand.

                  “I am here,” he says. “For as long as you will have me.”

                  “Neither of us can promise that,” Malik says. “Not in this life.”

                  He can feel Altaïr’s shoulder shrug against his own.

                  “Then I am here for as long as Death will permit me,” he amends.

                  Appeased, Malik breathes out a quiet laugh and settles back against the wall. His shoulders are loose in a way he can’t remember feeling; there is no knot of tension in his neck, no tightly wound muscles along his back. For a few moments, he simply breathes deeply and relishes that peace. Though he can still hear the noises of the bureau, they are distant, as if from very far away.

                  “You should eat,” he says finally. “You are still healing.”

                  Altaïr gives a little snort, as if amused, and Malik frowns as, heedless, Altaïr shifts to retrieve his plate from where it’s scattered over the blanket. Dropping the last of the food back onto the plate, he settles back beside Malik. All the while, his left hand stays a constant, steady warmth against Malik’s right.

                  “You make a good Dai,” Altaïr says as he leans back.

                  It catches Malik off-guard, as if he was half-expecting some quip about being motherly. Instead, Altaïr’s tone is light but sincere. He looks up at the startled silence that follows his words and cants his head just-so. With the gesture comes an echo of it, the memory of their conversation on the rooftop now so long ago.

                  “Why did you sleep on the roof?” Malik blurts out.

                  Surprise slackens Altaïr’s face before he closes his mouth and looks down to where his right hand rubs at the edge of the plate. It catches on an imperfection there and lingers.

                  “I didn’t want to be a burden,” he says finally. “I know I can…cause friction among the Brothers. And – with you… I didn’t want to be a – a reminder.”

                    He exhales as if, with his breath, he’s releasing the locks he keeps on himself. His right hand tightens and curls into a fist on the edge of the plate until white bleeds in lines down his knuckles.

                  “It was my fault that Kadar died and you lost your arm,” he says. The words spill out of him in a rush now, a tide freed from its dam. “I should’ve been the one to die. I knew it then but I didn’t want to. There was nothing I could do to fix what I had broken so I avoided it. You – and the fault. If I could distance myself from it – pretend I didn’t care – maybe I could stop – stop…”

                  Whatever he was going to say is brushed away by a shake of his head. He swallows.

                  “I’ve been a fool. All this time, I never told you I was sorry,” he says. He looks to Malik with a resolute frown. “I’m sorry, Malik. I’m sorry for my actions at the Temple and the suffering they’ve caused. And I’m sorry for the way I’ve behaved since. You had every right to be angry – to hate me.”

                  The words catch Malik off-guard so that he feels almost that he’s watching the scene unfold from a separate vantage point. Earlier, he would have raged at the inadequacy of them; did Altaïr really think a few words could mend the damage he’d inflicted? did he really think Malik was so desperate to have him back? Words could not raise the dead. They could not bring back what was lost. They were not enough.

                  Now, though, Malik finds none of that. Calm settles over his back with the weight of a mantle, a heavy robe laying smooth his shoulders. The words come without conscious thought.

                  “I do not accept your apology,” he says.

                  The effect is immediate: Altaïr’s shoulders curl inwards, fisted hand loosening against the plate. There is no surprise in his reaction, only resignation.

                  “I understand,” he says quietly.

                  “No, you don’t.”

                  Malik releases Altaïr’s hand – again, he puts up no fight – and uses it to gently draw Altaïr’s gaze back to him. His chin is brushed with stubble, and the fine hairs prick at Malik’s fingers.

                  “I do not accept your apology because you are not the same man who went with me into Solomon’s Temple,” he says, “and so you have nothing to apologize for.”

                  Altaïr’s brow furrows and a protest rises on his lips. Before he can utter it, Malik presses on. He knows what he needs to say, the truth that he has stifled under months of hate.

                  “If I had not been so resentful – so envious – of you, I would not have been so careless myself,” he continues. “I am just as much to blame.”

                  It isn’t belief that enters Altaïr’s eyes but something smaller, more fragile – a desire to believe, perhaps, the hope that one day he could. Malik meets his gaze and wills him to see the sincerity in his own.

                  Altaïr lifts his hand to rest over Malik’s. Their hands are evenly matched, nearly equal in breadth and length. It’s a strange comfort. Closing his eyes, Altaïr shifts to press a gentle kiss to Malik’s palm, just at the base of his thumb. His fingers curl into Malik’s and his brow furrows in a brief, tight expression.

                  Turning back to Malik, he gently disengages their hands and returns Malik’s to him with a small, tired smile.

                  “You should eat as well,” he says. “The bureau will miss their Dai soon enough.”

                  “Let them,” Malik grumbles, but he does set about retrieving the bread and cheese and dates that have not fallen to the floor.

                  They eat in comfortable silence, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. A line of warmth seeps in through Malik’s side from where Altaïr’s body is pressed to his. Like so many moments, it brings with it an echo of the past, but this is one that comes without any pain: the two of them sitting perched on some high ledge as novices, eating their suppers and dreaming up their future together. They’d travel to China, to the barbaric North. They’d fight off savages and shrug off wounds as if they were scratches. And all of it, always, they would do together.

                  A nudge at his shoulder brings Malik back to the present to find Altaïr watching him fondly. He’s not smiling except by his eyes, where the skin has crinkled just-so with warmth.

                  “What were you thinking about?” he asks.

                  “Us,” Malik answers honestly.

                  He presses a kiss to the smile that brings out on Altaïr’s lips. If happiness has a texture, he thinks, it is the sticky-sweet of dates and the warmth of Altaïr’s hand on the back of his neck. Here, with the muffled noises of the bureau behind him, Altaïr beside him, and his old dreams laid out on the walls around them, he is content. Finally, he is home.

                 

                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around for this, y'all! I've loved reading your comments and am so appreciative of you hanging in there for my haphazard updates. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> As always, I'm on tumblr @ [ curiosity-killed](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com) and am always happy to talk :)


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